


Melodies of Sickness

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Consensual Infidelity, Dubious Consent, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Infidelity, Insults, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Build, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, angbang, as in Eönwë having a big fat crush on Melkor, if i missed something to warn for let me know, melkor is broken, which let's face it isn't surprising in my writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 16:56:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12775386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: Mairon Aulendil dislikes his job, for all that it may seem like a dream job for people who don't know better. He's supposed to be the manager of the music sensation of the century, not the baby-sitter for a self-destructive wreck of a man. He should quit. He would. He just doesn't want to leave Melkor to his own devices, is all. Feelings are definitely not involved.





	Melodies of Sickness

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the warnings. I'm not joking. 
> 
> If there is anything you enjoy in here, please at least be bothered to leave kudos. It means a lot. Thanks!

Mairon Aulendil doesn't really enjoy his job. He doubts anyone would, in fact; oh, many would trade their souls to be in his place without a doubt, but that's because they have no idea what the reality entails. What they see is the romanticized, idealistic image of Melkor Bauglir, an artificial persona made for the sake of the masses: someone who doesn't exist outside of the stage. What they all dream of could not be further from the truth – the truth Mairon is forced to guard.

And he doesn't enjoy it in the least.

'Would it kill you to clean up this place just once,' he mutters to the sleeping form hunched among the numerous bottles on the sofa. Tangled and greasy hair, jeans and a t-shirt from at least two days ago, vomit stains around his mouth: this is the pretty picture Melkor Bauglir makes of himself if left to his own devices away from the spotlight.

'Well, fuck,' Mairon says and, against all vows he swore to himself about this, he starts picking up the empty bottles and other kinds of trash, trying not to think about the bodily substances which might be mixed in it.

It's demeaning. It's degrading. He's supposed to be the man's manager. He could live with also being his PA, it's not bad even if it's not really what he signed up for. But he hates that somehow, he got appointed Melkor's caretaker, his maid and his fucking addiction therapist all at once. And yet, even after having promised to himself never to do this again, Mairon still finds himself tying his hair into a bun and getting down on his knees to clean up the _fucking_ mess.

' _You_ are a fucking mess,' he says spitefully to the man asleep on the sofa. There is no answer save a soft snore – _at least he's quiet when he's passed out_ – and Mairon decides ineffectual verbal abuse is not as satisfying as he'd like it to be.

There's thankfully no vomit on the floor nor the furniture, which means Melkor must have miraculously managed to get his ass to a bathroom; the downstairs bathroom, however, shows no signs of defilement – the mess of the whole house never found its way here, it seems, save for maybe the washing machine which looks close to collapsing under the amount of black clothes thrown carelessly in a pile on top of it. Mind filling with dread, Mairon checks the upstairs bathroom and finds it just as pristine. Melkor must have found another location to throw up and hopefully it's not one of the closets or somewhere like that.

There's no acrid smell of old vomit in the air anywhere save for the putrid mix of stenches surrounding the man himself, so it's almost safe to believe this time won't be that bad. Mairon is very quick and efficient with the cleaning once he puts his mind to the task with just silent rage boiling beneath the surface of his forced calm. Not for the first time, he considers handing in his resignation. His father, no doubt, would approve: Aulë was always against Mairon taking the assignment with Bauglir, so much so that voicing his displeasure got him moved to the technical department and his contracts were distributed among others in Almaren Inc. Officially, it was a promotion: with it came bigger money and overall better benefits. The truth was widely known, however. Nobody spoke out against what Manwë Súlimo decided where his beloved twin brother was concerned.

Mairon knows he's never going to really resign. A resignation would likely end his career in show-business at this stage; he's likely the only reason Bauglir hasn't killed himself yet with his booze and drugs. Even with Mairon around, it's nothing short a miracle that the man's not managed to choke on his own vomit or fall off the stairs when too fucked up to walk straight. He's a damn living and breathing disaster.

'I hate you so much,' Mairon whispers at Melkor's curled up form and sighs.

With a firm hand he shakes the man's shoulder, perhaps a bit more roughly than strictly necessary. Melkor stirs and groans. He's basically impossible to rouse by any amount of noise, but just the hint of physical contact and the man is awake, no matter how wasted.

'What'd you want,' mumbles Melkor, blinking slowly. Mairon opens his mouth to speak, but the man rolls to his other side on the sofa to hide his face in the backrest. 'No, know what? I don't care. Get the fuck out,' he says resentfully.

'I will not. Now get up,' Mairon replies in a hard tone, summoning every bit of authority he possesses about his person. He'll need it. And his patience.

'What time is it?' Melkor asks. Before Mairon can answer, the man mutters something unintelligible, then, 'Day. What day is it?'

'What difference does it make to you? Can you even tell one from another?' Mairon snaps.

The man actually uncurls at that, rises to a slouched but seated position. There's indignation on his face, but Mairon cannot take him seriously like this: dirty and disgusting and hungover.

'I have a live on... one of them,' Melkor says and frowns.

'Yes, tomorrow. I came because you don't answer your phone. You were supposed to show up for rehearsals. Yesterday,' replies Mairon, assuming a tone one would speak in to a very slow child. 'I'd like you to get up and go take a shower. You stink.'

'I do, don't I,' says Melkor thoughtfully. 'I... don't remember last night. Or the night before that. I think I don't remember anything that happened since you picked me up from the club?'

'It's a wonder you remember being in the club at all. You were already plastered then,' Mairon tells him stiffly. It's just as well the man doesn't remember. So many problems does it solve. So many unnecessary questions can be avoided. 'Just go take a shower. I'll find you some clean clothes.'

He watches the man leaving on unsteady legs, listens for an unmistakable noise of him collapsing, but apparently Melkor is not that bad today. Once the bathroom door closes behind him, Mairon goes to the kitchen to start some water boiling, then to the bedroom upstairs.

The bed looks a disaster like someone trashed and turned on it before deciding the sheets look better on the floor, but he tries his best to ignore it lest it bring up unwelcome memories. Shaking his head, Mairon dives into the walk-in closet to find anything Melkor may wear outside. For a brief moment he considers the pair of fitted black trousers and one of the nicer dress shirts, maybe even a full suit, which he supposes would be pretty uncomfortable in the state the man is in; but he discards the idea almost immediately. Irritable Melkor is a Melkor who fucks up the rehearsals for everyone just as surely as for himself. It's definitely not something Mairon wants to deal with on top of all the other problems his charge is no doubt going to cause. Mercifully, then, he picks a band t-shirt from the long-gone days of Utumno – he knows Melkor is still fond of the memory of his old gig, even if the circumstances surrounding the band's break up were grim at best – and a pair of loose-fitting jeans. Complete with a pair of clean underwear, he carries the bundle to the bathroom and knocks.

There's no answer, not that he expected one. Just the sound of running water. No humming can be heard from the other side of the door which, okay, it's weird: Melkor usually sings in the shower regardless of whether he's drunk, sober or half-asleep. Frowning, Mairon knocks again and hears a slightly breathless, 'Yeah?' in response.

'I'll leave the clothes outside the door,' he announces loudly. Then, quietly, he murmurs to himself: 'I swear, if you're cutting yourself in there again, or if you're taking something, I'm going to walk in there and strangle you myself.' Of course he won’t. First of all, he really doesn’t want to come upon the man in the nude; and more importantly, he knows hurting Melkor wouldn’t be particularly conductive to a successful career. It’s one thing to threaten and insult the bastard to his face or behind his back – most of the time Melkor doesn’t even remember any of it come next morning. There’s not much left of his brain anymore, Mairon thinks bitterly; heavy substance abuse must have fried most of what the meds and therapy didn’t scramble.

Once upon a time, Melkor Bauglir might have been what the masses see him as. But not anymore, not likely.

He makes black coffee for himself and one for Melkor, with as much sugar as he thinks is safe to put into the mug. For a few minutes, he rummages through the cupboard looking for the man’s favourite chocolate syrup, but it’s nowhere to be seen; he adds it to the shopping list he keeps in his EyePhone and substitutes it with cocoa. Melkor is likely still too hungover to ever notice the difference, and if he’s not, well. It’s his fault he’s not stocked up, so he’s got no right to complain. Not that it would stop him.

Melkor comes down to the kitchen topless, attempting to dry off his uneven hair with the fluffiest towel he found. Mairon bought it, and several more like it, a few weeks ago at a discount store after Melkor set fire to his old towels and some socks in the backyard. “They were pastel,” he said in his defence, as if that explained anything but his own insanity. Mairon made sure the new towels he picked up were either navy blue or completely black in order to avoid a repeat of that episode. The black towel doesn’t seem to trigger Melkor’s destructive instincts, so it’s probably safe.

Staring at him without a shirt on is much less so.

‘This one is yours,’ Mairon says and passes the man his mug while barely even looking at him. With a contented sigh, the other man takes a large sip of the sickly sweet beverage, slumping against the counter right next to Mairon.

‘You make the best coffee,’ he murmurs.

Mairon rolls his eyes. ‘Only you would still call that vile concoction _coffee_ ,’ he scoffs. ‘Drink your sugary poison and dress yourself. We need to get going.’

‘You cleaned the house again,’ Melkor notes curiously. ‘You said you wouldn’t.’

‘Yes, apparently I don’t know better,’ replies Mairon with a scowl. He finishes his own coffee – he savours, for a moment, the sensation of the hot drink burning his tongue – and sets the cup on the counter behind him. ‘When was the last time you remember taking your meds?’

Melkor frowns, considers the question. ‘I don’t take them anymore,’ he says, but it sounds more like a question than a statement. It’s still better than nothing; means he’s at least somewhat aware of the reality around him. He visibly relaxes when Mairon nods in affirmation. A few drops of water drip from his hair to his shoulders and begin a slow descent down his naked torso. Mairon does not follow them with his eyes no matter how much he wants to.

_And why not?_ He asks himself. _He wouldn’t mind. He’d probably like it._ These are dangerous thoughts he mustn’t entertain. Besides, physical appeal aside, Mairon knows the man next to him spends half of his life too drunk or too high to know how to use the toilet. If anything, the idea of touching him should be disgusting. It’s not, though; and not just the idea, but the memory, too, of that large body warm and pliant under his hands-

‘I’ll wait in the car,’ he says quickly, louder than he intended. Ignoring Melkor’s surprised look following him, he heads out through the back door.

He circles the house through the yard and gets into his car to wait for the other man. He notices with a start that his hands are trembling. He’s not sure if it’s because he’s angry or shaken. It might be both. He sure as all tends to get angry around Melkor a lot, even without improper ideas flooding his mind. _What happened three nights ago is of no consequence_ , he tells himself. _He doesn’t even remember_. It's for the best. This way, he can remain professional.

When Melkor finally joins him some time later, Mairon is completely calm again. He coolly observes as the other man gets on the car and buckles the seatbelt. The ridiculous uneven hairstyle is neatly tucked into a rather loose bun, the dark circles under Melkor’s eyes are well-hidden behind giant sunglasses. He almost looks presentable, if not for the joint which hangs from his lips. Without a thought, Mairon picks it up and chucks it out of the window. At Melkor’s protest, he simply glares.

‘Can’t a guy relax in peace?’ Mutters Melkor darkly, but he doesn’t try to produce another even though he surely has a stash on his person somewhere. He’s easily subdued today; either he is too tired to argue or, more likely, he had something before he left – a drink, a pill, it could be anything.

‘How’s your throat?’ Asks Mairon drily. Melkor chuckles. It’s a pleasant sound. The fans, they love his laughter: low and rumbling and grating on the ears. Impossible to forget. He laughs for them often. It sells. He knows how best to sell himself, Mairon has to give him that.

‘What, you’re worried? Not worried about me, per chance?’ Asks Melkor in amusement. His Valarin accent is too thick, almost fake in its richness. It’s authentic, though, as far as Mairon can tell. He’s heard Melkor speak when too far gone to mind any pretences, and it was the same: heavy on the consonants, drawling as if in mockery. His brother doesn’t talk like that. _Nobody_ talks like that.

‘Your voice is the only worthwhile thing about you,’ Mairon informs the other man sternly and steadily bears the disbelieving guffaw he receives in reply.

‘I wish I had your sharp wit,’ Melkor tells him cheerfully. ‘I might have had it, once. Don’t ever go to prison with that tongue of yours, though. They’d blunt it quickly,’ he finishes and slouches in the seat. It’s something he rarely ever mentions about his past: the three years of incarceration which put an end to the brilliant future before Utumno.

It was a hell of a case. All national media covered the story of the drunk driving accident which killed four people, including two children. Manwë Súlimo claimed since the beginning that his brother was innocent, even when Melkor didn’t. Whatever the truth, it didn’t seem to matter because the man devoted a small army of lawyers to get Melkor out; rumour had it that a lot of money also exchanged hands before Súlimo finally got his way. But whatever happened to Melkor during the three years he was locked away, he came out a changed man: lethargic at his best, unhinged at his worst, violent or depressed in between. He never got better.

‘We’re here,’ Mairon announces. Melkor looks at him for a moment too long, considers him thoughtfully and finally shrugs.

‘I know where to go,’ he says. ‘Buy me a sandwich or something. Ice cream. Or gingerbread. Just, be useful,’ he adds and smirks, satisfied with the effect the final words have on Mairon’s mood.

Mairon glares at his back when Melkor walks to the building. Still, like the fool that he is, he goes to the nearby coffee shop and purchases two large gingerbread muffins. On second thought, he also visits the fast food bar in the neighbourhood and orders three of their biggest sandwiches to go. If Melkor’s been passed out or drunk for as long as he thinks, the man has got to be starving. He won’t admit it, of course, he _never_ admits to anything he perceives a weakness; but he’s certainly going to appreciate warm food, even such of sub-par quality. If nothing else, he’ll need the energy. Even he can’t run exclusively on booze and sugar-coffee, no matter how hard he tries.

When Mairon brings the food to the rehearsal studio (which is actually prohibited, but it’s the one rule he is willing to break if only to make sure Melkor is fed once in a while), the band is already practising. He pretends to himself that he doesn't recognize the song ( _Flame of Udun_ from Melkor's second solo album, _Sudden Flames_ ). He doesn't listen to Melkor's music if he can help it. He used to: he was a fan of Utumno once upon a time, the devoted kind of fan who tried to see as many live performances per tour as his limited teenage finances allowed; he grew up, however, and he grew out of the rebellious stage of his life. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t appreciate the man’s voice, because he really finds it quite exceptional, mesmerizing both on stage and even more so in the throes of passion- no.

Shaking his head, Mairon takes a seat on the uncomfortable chair in the corner of the studio where he is less likely to bother the band. The studio has been built and arranged to replicate the conditions found in a medium-sized live house. Something about the arrangement is supposed to make the acoustics similar to a hall filled with people. It works for when the real thing is booked. The problem is, Melkor dislikes it. He’s complained in the past that he can’t get into the performance when in such a small room, when he can’t imagine the audience at all. A few times, he threatened to botch it just as a form of protest. To make him more complacent, Mairon always makes sure to be there when the band rehearses in the studio, and it works: either he’s enough of an audience, or Melkor doesn’t want to make him mad for one reason or another.

It’s difficult to focus on anything specific when sitting on the rehearsals, however; the music rings loudly in his ears, the beat reverberates in his soul and makes him want to do something crazy like sing along. With a sigh, Mairon resigns himself to doing nothing for the time being. He could try to look at the live arrangements for next month, he could attempt a grand review of the stuff related to the EP release coming soon after Yule season, but he doesn’t. Because watching Melkor perform is a treat no matter how many times he’s seen it before; either on stage or here in the studio, it’s always the same kind of thrill.

Melkor Bauglir is a different person when he’s performing. His slouch is nowhere to be seen; he stands straight-backed and mighty like a god of yore, proud and terrifying and beautiful. He is glowing, as if filled with an unholy light which he cannot contain. His voice – his voice is overwhelming. It sounds great on recordings, but live… by the Void, the sheer power behind that voice would be enough to shatter entire nations, to claim lands, to win battles. There are legends from ancient times that the Eldar were capable of singing Songs of Power – songs which could destroy mountains and bring forth torrential rains, songs more reminiscent of thunderstorms or earthquakes than they were of music. Melkor’s voice is like that, Mairon thinks, listening to the drawn out syllables which could just as well mean nothing as they mean anything for all he cares about the lyrics. It’s the sound, the tone of it so alluring and dark, the roughness which scratches at the soul until it breaks… It’s like being chased by dragons or trying to escape a tornado, hopeless and pulled to the brink of insanity. It’s-

‘Fuck, I’m hungry,’ exclaims Melkor all of a sudden and drops the microphone. The spell is broken by the long whine of static and Mairon glares at him all the harder for it; he knows he’s been caught admiring like a love-struck teenager who doesn’t know better. Still glowering, he hands the older man the paper bag with sandwiches when Melkor approaches expectantly.

‘Stuff yourself,’ he mutters and fumbles for his phone to pretend his attention is already occupied with something else. There’s a new email from the news agency with a proposal of a press tour to accompany the world tour next year. Mairon deletes it without reading. It’s one of the things Melkor won’t do: press tours. He may agree to an interview here and there, but he hates them; too often people try to ask about the accident and prison, and at least twice the man stormed out from an interview like a thunder cloud. After that, all interview questions had to be pre-approved by Mairon and any question sneaked in not from the list would automatically result in the interview being cancelled. Even with such precautions Melkor still won’t deal with press if he doesn’t have to. Maybe Mairon likes to torment him sometimes, but he wouldn’t force the man to do up from ten interviews per day.

‘Where’s my ice cream?’ Asks Melkor when he’s done with all three sandwiches in a disturbingly short moment.

‘Don’t be a fool, you’re lactose intolerant,’ Mairon snaps, not once looking up from the phone. ‘You want the lactose-free kind, go hunt for it yourself. Good luck in this neighbourhood.’ It’s a primarily Teleri-populated district of the Old Capital, which of course means that the decidedly Noldorin trend of lactose-free anything hasn’t reached it yet. Even the Sindar have long accepted the fact that the Noldor are trend-setters for the entire world, but not the Teleri. Funny how deep some racial prejudices run, especially between Elves. At least there’s no killing anymore. The civil war down in New Doriath must have taught those fools a thing or two. Still, all that tension means it’s particularly hard to find lactose-free ice cream in Teleri districts.

Melkor scoffs. ‘Gingerbread, then?’ He inquires stiffly. He brightens immediately when Mairon hands him the muffins. He’s a complete glutton for sweets, especially so after heavy drinking. Mairon would rather feed him something nutritious and protein-loaded, but Melkor's dietary choices are not really his business. Either way, putting the man on a healthy diet would hardly matter if he’d just drown it all in cheap wine and then throw it all up.

By the Flame Imperishable, the guy’s fucked up and Mairon shouldn’t care, but he does. Fuck, he really does.

The rehearsal is wholly uneventful after that; Mairon somehow manages to stay focused on his phone, replying to emails and confirming shows for the tour. It’s going to be the biggest tour they’ve had yet, spreading as far as the city of Lonely Mountain in Erebor. If everything works out, they may land even further east in Esgaroth. All Greenwood and Dale dates have already been confirmed and the ticket sales will be going up in days, so it’s quite likely that Esgaroth will come to be as well. It’s almost like playing politics, in a way, the tour planning. Before, Mairon never realized that a live taking place on a certain date in a certain city could influence the willingness of another city to host another live two days after. When Eryn Lasgalen found out that all of Erebor’s shows were already sold out, it made them almost back out completely, but they relented after a promise of an exclusive merchandise pack. It was hell to arrange, but Mairon pushed it through. Then Erebor got wind of the promise and made threats to back out and Mairon gave them word that some new material will be first presented during the Lonely Mountain live.

That actually got Melkor pretty excited, since he’s always eager to share his latest creations with the world. If he had his way, a new album would be released every month or so. He writes more songs daily than he’s able to record in a month, and for weeks he claims all of them are perfect before he sees reason enough to scrap some of them. He never wants to stay within one genre either. So far he’s done anything from rock through post-grunge, heavy metal, black metal, speed metal, cross-overs between all of them, cross-overs between any of them with industrial and a dash of indie pop; lately, he’s been smitten with symphonic metal influenced by traditional music of Valinor. Choosing material to release is always incredibly hard because nothing really fits together. Mairon is long past searching for common denominators in the lyrics or musical motives; he leaves the picking to Melkor himself and hopes for the best. It’s been selling like a dream for long enough that he’s reluctantly learned to trust the man’s choices. Sometimes.

'Will you buy me booze if I ask?' Melkor inquires when they are on their way back. It's getting dark out, so he doesn't wear his sunglasses anymore. He looks tired, not just for the dark circles underneath his eyes.

'No. You need to be sober tomorrow,' Mairon says firmly.

Melkor actually pouts at that. It's ridiculous. 'Oh, come on. If I drink tonight, I'll be perfectly sober by morning,' he promises.

'When you start, you won't stop until you pass out,' Mairon replies calmly. His resolve won't break. Not tonight, not on any night before a live. He knows Melkor won't go by himself. He never does. He might try to get someone else to buy his alcohol for him, he might call Gothmog, Ancalagon or Glaurung. One of them may actually let him have his way. They're all three rather a bit afraid of Melkor; for what reason, Mairon does not know. He's not sure this is an appropriate dynamic in a band, but it's as it is. The label really doesn't care much about the musicians, either way. They could be replaced. Melkor could not.

'You're no fun. I wonder if you'd be less rigid after a drink or two,' says the older man and grins to his thoughts. 'I bet you're the type to dance when you're wasted.'

'I don't dance,' Mairon informs him coldly, 'and I do _not_ get wasted. Now. Do you want me to drop you off first, or would you rather wait in the car while I go about resupplying you with food?'

'Can't I go with you?' Melkor asks with a dangerous glint in his bright eyes. He pouts again when Mairon simply glares at him. 'You're mean. I'll be bored in the car. I might decide to steal it for a ride.'

'You won't,' says Mairon and smirks. 'Fingerprint recognition. It won't even start without my input. Believe me, I knew what to buy to make it completely Melkor-proof.' He laughs at the man's indignant expression.

Melkor waits in the car while Mairon picks up the groceries. It takes no more than half an hour, but when he's back, the older man is asleep with his head propped against the window. He looks so relaxed like this, so peaceful. It's almost a shame that he awakens immediately when the engine comes to life – any movement rouses him, even as gentle as the rocking of the running electric car. For the rest of the ride, he remains as he was, leaning against the side door, awake, but barely. He doesn't immediately get off once they arrive. For a moment, he just sits there. When Mairon clears his throat, only then does Melkor get out of the car.

They enter the house in silence. Mairon heads straight to the kitchen where he unpacks the supplies he bought and neatly puts them where they belong. Melkor watches him from the doorway, not in the slightest interested in helping. His eyes follow Mairon's movements lazily.

'Will you come by and cook for me?' He asks when Mairon finishes his task and closes the fridge.

'What, tomorrow?' Mairon frowns. 'I don't think I'll have the time. I've got a debriefing in the morning, then I've got to meet with the photographers, then the sound arrangement guys. I'll need to check with one of the sponsors, too, there's something wrong with their invoices of late. Maybe another time. I can order something for you though-'

'Don't bother,' Melkor mutters unhappily and stalks off. Mairon hears his footsteps on the stairs, then the sound of a door being slammed shut. Either a bathroom or the bedroom, judging by the distance. Both are safe. Mairon's pretty sure the rooms are clean after he threw out something like a few thousand mirians in pills. The rest of the stash is hidden away somewhere in the living room. It's unlikely Melkor was in contact with his dealer since the last time Mairon was here, so there's no need to follow him now that he throws a temper tantrum. It's as non-threatening as can be; still, Mairon hesitates. He doesn't really feel comfortable leaving the man alone in the house for the night. It's a stupid thought. There are a dozen things he needs to do before the live tomorrow. He should go home and sleep in his own bed. He should keep his distance. Fuck, after what happened three days ago, he should stay as far away as he could.

Sighing, he heads to the guest bedroom upstairs.

It's actually his room, to be completely honest. He's got the only key to the door. There's some of his clothes in there, and a pillow he bought himself, and his spare toothbrush. He supposes he spent enough nights in this house, watching over the walking – _crawling,_ more like - headache that is Melkor when drunk, to warrant a need for a place he could sleep it off. It's not like he's here that often, not at all. Three nights a month, sometimes not even that. Sometimes more, depending on Melkor's mood. He's more prone to hurting himself when it's warm and sunny, for some reason, and that's when Mairon stays around more often. In winter, he barely ever comes to visit, but it's not winter yet. The weather is suitably chilly at night, but during the day the remnants of this year's relentless summer can still be sensed in the air and it makes Melkor on edge. It's almost so bad Mairon wants to remove all sharp objects from his vicinity. He did that, once and he had to come in every morning to shave the man because Melkor was insufferable about it. Even if he did look _good_ when unshaven. Well, it was better than the alternative of finding Melkor bled out in one of the bathrooms. Manwë would have his hide if anything happened to his precious brother... and to be honest, despite the personality crisis he may or may not be going through because of the bastard, Mairon also doesn't want to see Melkor harmed.

He can't go to sleep even though he's tired. For a time, he listens for any noises coming from the hall. Nothing disturbs the silence of the house, however. Mairon can't decide if it's a good or a bad thing. Has he missed anything? Is Melkor in the bathroom with a fucking needle in his arm right now just because he didn't go and check up on him? Or is he drunk out of his mind on vodka from some particularly well-hidden stash? With a sigh, Mairon sets out to check on him, cursing himself for caring too much about a grown adult who doesn't seem to know how to take care of himself at all.

The bathroom is empty. It doesn't look like it gets much use, anyway; the liquid soap container is just as full as it was when Mairon bought it a few days ago, there's no shampoo at the shower stall or anywhere near. The towels are dry. There are rusty-coloured smudges at the bottom of the tub (who the Void has both a shower stall and a bathtub in _both_ bathrooms? It's so unreasonable), which Mairon quickly identifies as the remains of vomit which he must have missed earlier today. He turns on the water, scrunching his nose in disgust. At least now he knows he won't find Melkor's stomach contents anywhere else around the house. It's a relief that even wasted, the man had enough sense to throw up somewhere easy enough to clean.

'How can I be in love with,' he mutters under his breath, cuts himself off and shakes his head. He turns off the water and leaves the bathroom, then goes to Melkor’s bedroom. He knocks lightly, but there’s no answer, so he carefully opens the door and steps inside.   
Melkor is fast asleep on the messy bed. He’s still wearing the jeans and t-shirt, he hasn’t even removed his boots; he’s curled up around the crumpled blanket, with his head below the pillow. As far as Mairon can see with the dim light from the hallway, there are no bottles or suspicious containers around him. It’s a relief to see him sleep without the drugs and booze to render him unconscious. A good night’s sleep is so rare in his case and he wouldn’t admit how desperately he needs the rest. It’s a lot to hope not to wake him up when Mairon begins to unlace the man’s boots, but by some miracle, Melkor remains asleep. He mumbles something incomprehensible into the blanket, but otherwise he doesn’t stir. When his boots are gone, Mairon produces another blanket from the walk-in closet and covers Melkor’s sleeping form.

‘Sleep well, you bastard,’ he says with a smile he’s sure is far too gentle. Shaking his head, he walks back to the guest bedroom, careful not to make any noise despite being aware that sounds would not rouse Melkor no matter how loud. Once he goes to bed, sleep claims him as well, uninterrupted until morning.

He awakens at four-thirty, well before his alarm clock chimes. He’s on his feet in another ten minutes; he heads down to the kitchen to make coffee and work about preparing breakfast. He has no time to make anything too elaborate, but he got up specifically so that he can cook something fancier than the burnt toast with chocolate and sugar Melkor would undoubtedly have once he’s awake. He stays within the parameters of _sweet_ , which is how Melkor likes his breakfast; he decides on pancakes with gooseberry jam, freshly squeezed orange juice and dark chocolate muffins. It takes quite some time to prepare everything, especially since Melkor only has one bowl suitable to mix batter in, but he manages to just finish when the man walks into the kitchen exactly ten past seven.

‘Smells nice,’ says Melkor by ways of greeting. He looks much better than yesterday; the circles under his eyes are much less pronounced against his pale skin. He slouches less, too, and he seems not to be so tense.

‘I hope it tastes just as nice,’ replies Mairon drily, waiting for Melkor to sit at the table before putting a plate full of pancakes in front of him. ‘You’re required to eat everything.’

‘What, you want to fatten me up?’ Jokes Melkor with a grin. But he’s already eating; his hair is a mess and it’s distracting. It’s probably the reason why, instead of ignoring him, Mairon teases right back:

‘Yes, so I can eat you right up.’

Melkor chews thoughtfully, then swallows, licks his lips – and looks up at Mairon. ‘I think I wouldn’t mind it at all,’ he says softly. Coyly. Startled, Mairon almost drops his coffee. He stares, speechless, at the man – and then Melkor begins to laugh.

‘Your face,’ he gasps in between guffaws. ‘By the Void, I know you hate me, but I didn’t think,’ he shakes his head. ‘I didn’t think you’d be so scared! Don’t worry, it’s just a joke, I promise. I promise!’

‘Fuck you,’ Mairon snaps angrily. For a moment there, he thought… But of course, the stupid bastard was just making fun of him. Oh, how Mairon wants to hit him now! At least his real feelings never showed on his face; the embarrassment of that would have ended him. If Melkor found out… if he remembered… no. No, it’s better that he thinks Mairon hates him. It’s better that it’s all just a joke to him.

‘Don’t think too highly of yourself,’ he mutters to the man, who snickers and stuffs his mouth with pancake. Glaring at him, Mairon finishes his coffee and packs up the four muffins he baked.

‘Wait, where are you taking that?’ Melkor protests when he notices.

‘You make fun of me, you don’t get any sweets,’ Mairon replies sternly. ‘I’ll pick you up at two-thirty. If you’re not ready by then, don’t doubt that I’ll drag you out by the hair, wearing a fucking bathrobe, if need be.’

He leaves before Melkor is able to think of a snarky response.

...  


He spends the entire trip to the office seething and even devouring all four muffins one after another doesn’t help. In fact, he feels nauseous after consuming so much sugar, which in turn feeds his anger at the insufferable twat he’s forced to work with. What’s worse, he’s about to enter a meeting with the higher ups during which he must attempt to convince everyone yet again that the additional costs surrounding the upcoming world tour will be worth it in the end. It won’t work, of course, no matter what he says. The Finance department is still going to bitch about every necessary purchase (“Do we really need so many custom guitar picks? What do those guys do with them, eat them? What do you mean they throw them to the audience? For free? But that way the fans won’t buy any merchandise!”), the Technical department will make impossible demands especially if his father is allowed to speak, the lawyers will start arguing and nobody will listen to a word out of Mairon’s mouth. In the end, all additional expenditures will be approved by Manwë anyway. Since the first day of planning for the tour, that’s how this has worked: week after week, at every meeting, again and again.

With a sigh bemoaning the time wasted for nonsensical quarrels, Mairon walks through the hall leading to his office. His phone rings, capturing his attention so that he doesn’t notice the other person in the hallway right until he walks into them. The apology dies on his mouth when he is levelled with the coldest glare he’s ever had the displeasure of witnessing.

‘Do you not have eyes?’ Asks the other person icily. Mairon doesn’t know him. He’s an Elf, tall, lean and with broad shoulders. His dark hair, piercing silvery eyes and the holier-than-thou attitude all suggest a Noldo. He’s easily one of the most beautiful men Mairon’s seen in his life; but the air of contempt about him turns him much less attractive than his looks make him out to be. There’s something familiar about him. On the other hand, don’t all Noldor look the same? He's pretty sure it's impossible to tell one from another without them standing side by side.

‘Have you misplaced yours? It takes two people to collide,’ Mairon replies in the most polite tone he can muster.

‘Of course, everyone here lacks manners,’ the Elf grumbles as if to himself. ‘I don’t know why I bother.’

Mairon shakes his head and walks past the Elf, ignoring anything further he might have to say. His mood’s even worse, if at all possible. His phone’s stopped ringing; it was Melkor, so probably nothing too important, but still he doesn’t like missing calls. He tries calling back, but there’s no answer. Definitely nothing important, then. Whatever, he thinks and, after a brief moment of hesitation, he enters the conference hall without knocking.

Everyone is already waiting inside. Olórin from Finances smiles at him, much friendlier than his usual line of reasoning would suggest; the others barely even glance at him. His father and Manwë are curiously missing and instead Eönwë from Management occupies Manwë’s seat. Nobody from Technical is present at all.

‘Let’s make this brief,’ Eönwë says. His tone is firm. ‘Finances want to protest the second signing session for the show in Imladris. Apparently, they feel it generates unnecessary costs. They propose that the second session is cancelled and you take the earlier plane to Lothlorien instead,’ he inclines his head to Olórin who looks like he wants to add something.

Eönwë doesn't let him, though. ‘We could get into a long and fruitless discussion about this here, but I’m honestly not in the mood. I’m not my dad to be into watching you guys argue. Both sessions are approved and will be announced today. We’re going to proceed with the original plan, the first session before the live is for everyone, the second session the day after is for ticket holders only.’

Mairon blinks. Being that the signing session was the only point on the agenda for today, this makes for the shortest meeting he’s had about the tour to date. He looks in surprise at Eönwë who winks at him. Olórin frowns and opens his mouth to protest.

‘I don’t care, Olórin,’ Eönwë interrupts. ‘I’ve already had a really long day and it’s not even nine in the morning yet. You want to argue this, argue with my dad. He called the shots. Just, don’t go to him right now,’ he adds as though in an afterthought. ‘He’s kinda busy,’ he mutters and shudders, as though from an unpleasant thought.

‘If nobody has anything else to say, well. Meeting adjourned, you may go,’ he says in a casual tone and leans as far back against the adjustable backrest of the chair as it can go. ‘Mairon, stay a moment please. I wanted to talk to you in private.’

Mairon stands while the others leave the room, whispering among themselves; there’s blatant disapproval in the glances they throw back to Eönwë who does a great job of ignoring them. He’s the big boss’ kid, the older brother of a pair of twins. Everybody knows they can’t touch him, and he knows it too. It’s not that he oversteps the boundaries too often, though; to be honest, he’s not that bad for all the slacking and stepping on people’s toes his position allows him to get away with. At least he has never stood in Mairon’s way, unlike literally everyone else in the company, including Melkor fucking Bauglir.

Once the two of them are alone, Eönwë straightens on the chair. ‘So,’ he says. Mairon waits for a follow-up; Eönwë fidgets under his look, coughs nervously, clears his throat.

‘So?’ Mairon inquires when the other man still doesn’t speak.

‘So, did you know our dads are sleeping together?’

The passive-aggressive question is so outside the realm of what Mairon expected that his mind short-circuits for a moment. Then he starts to take in the meaning of the words and he needs to sit. It’s like someone hit him over the head or something. Thoughts are racing inside so fast that they seem blurry. _It must be a joke_. Eönwë doesn’t look like he’s having fun, though. Yeah, but he’s related to Melkor, maybe he’s got the same disturbing sense of humour and wicked acting skills. For fuck’s sake.

‘I swear, if you’re joking,’ he says weakly.

‘I wish,’ mutters Eönwë darkly. ‘I walked in on them. Before the meeting. I was wondering why dad had me chair it in his stead, and why he didn't come to tell me in person. You know, he enjoys watching you struggle. Seems he enjoys being made to struggle as well. They didn't even notice I was there. Fuck.'

'Spare me the details. Please,' Mairon begs.

'I almost don't want to. I mean, if I have to suffer, you should as well. But on the other hand, I can't speak about it without remembering what I saw, and believe me, I _want_ to forget,' says Eönwë and sighs. 'We have to do something about it. We can't let this go on.'

Mairon looks at him a moment. 'What do you propose? I don't know about you, but I'm not exactly an expert in fathers having horrid affairs with other people's parents.'

'Yeah, me neither,' admits Eönwë. 'Fuck it. Fuck him! How can he do this behind mother's back!...'

It's a thought which hasn't occurred to Mairon before this moment. Once he hears it spoken out loud, however, he's disgusted with himself because his mother wasn't really on his mind at all. Damn, but he never suspected something like this would ever happen. Aulë Navatar's always been such a respectable man, and so in love with his wife. Boning another person – a man, at that, a married man who is also his boss! - it's completely out of character.

'We have to tell them that we know,' Mairon decides finally. Eönwë looks at him doubtfully, but eventually nods his assent. His face shows an expression of utter resentment and something like defeat. He licks his lips nervously.

'Do you want to go now?' He asks uncertainly.

'No,' Mairon replies quickly. 'I need to get going. We've got a live tonight, you might remember. There's so much still to do. I can't afford to waste a single moment more.'

'Alright,' agrees Eönwë. 'Just, let me know when. I think it may be... easier, if we speak to them together. Or something. Fuck, it won't be easier, will it? It'll be terrible no matter what we do.'

Mairon fears the other man might be right. He honestly dreads the confrontation. His father can be overbearing; it's unthinkable that Mairon should be the one to voice his disapproval instead of the other way around. It's always been him who disappointed Aulë, no matter how hard he tried to win his father's favour. It never seemed to work. Mother, she's the kindest woman to walk Arda and she loves all three of her sons equally. She's the soft counterpart to father's sternness. Before now, Mairon thought his parents had the perfect marriage. He actually _envied_ them.

'I have to go,' he says in a resigned tone.

Eönwë nods. 'Say hello to Melkor for me when you see him. And good luck with the live,' he adds with a weak smile.

It's extremely difficult to suppress the urge to barge into Manwë's office as Mairon passes it on the way out. To see, to confirm with his own two eyes the revelations Eönwë claimed as true. Because it still might be a stupid, elaborate joke. It could. _Yeah, denial is exactly what can help me now_ , he admonishes himself spitefully. He walks past the office at a brisk pace to resist the temptation. He will talk to his father later. He and Eönwë both will. For now, there's still so much to be done before the live in the evening, it's not even funny.

The meeting with the media goes surprisingly well, likely because Luthien Tinuviel from _Songs of Power_ couldn't make it. Her male counterpart, Beren, isn't half as bad and demanding as her; he accepts the rules as something that does not exist purely to be contested and signs the contract for the live coverage without as much as a blink. The others never cause trouble, only Luthien. Last time, she attempted to forcibly include a post-live, unsupervised interview and exclusive photo coverage in the contract, she even went as far as to attempt forgery. Mairon caught her thanks to his habit of double-checking anything he's to put his signature on. The woman tried to deny everything, of course, and later wrote a horrible and clearly fake review of the show which she had not even seen because the security detail didn't let her into the premises without a ticket or a press pass. She stole one, but got caught in the act and she was detained. Maybe that finally got her fired. Hah, if only. Such luck is extremely unlikely.

Next, Mairon drives to the office of one of their sponsors for the upcoming tour. Ulmo Oceanborn, the CEO of one of Beleriand's biggest online record stores _Music Ocean Entertainment_ , meets him personally in the conference room. He's an acquaintance of Manwë, so Mairon expects a short debriefing and a pat on the back. He's unpleasantly surprised, however, when Ulmo announces:

'I'm sorry for the late notice, but we would like to withdraw our sponsorship offer.' The words carry the note of finality to them. It doesn't help that Ulmo looks appropriately apologetic.

'I apologise, but I don't understand,' Mairon manages through his shock. Can this day get any worse? 'We're way past the stage when you could withdraw without penalty. How do you expect me to find another sponsor so late?'

'I know it inconveniences you and I deeply regret it has come to this. Of course, Music Ocean intends to reimburse you as per the contractual withdrawal agreement,' Ulmo promises firmly. Mairon has no doubt that the man will keep true to his word and there won't be a need to take this to court. It doesn't make him feel any better about losing the biggest fucking sponsor.

'Would anything work to change your mind?' He asks weakly.

'I'm afraid not,' replies Ulmo. 'The board has agreed that there is not enough profit in this venture to be worth the investment. Our original estimate was hasty and did not take certain factors into consideration.'

'This is bullshit,' snaps Mairon, then curtly apologises and gets a hold of his temper.

'I have nothing against you personally, Mr. Aulendil,' Ulmo assures him politely. 'I definitely have nothing against Manwë Súlimo. This is purely about money.'

'I see,' Mairon replies dutifully. He doesn't bring up the fact that he noticed the man didn't mention not having anything against Melkor. Frowning, he gathers his papers which he unnecessarily pulled out. 'If this is all,' he says. 'Please contact our Law department to work out the details of the contract annulment. Good day to you,' he bids pleasantly, but what he really thinks is, _I hope you die in the eternal cold of the Void_.

He doesn't really know how to proceed when he leaves the _Music Ocean_ building. This is the first time a sponsor's pulled out. So close to the tour, it spells disaster. There's literally not a chance he's going to find replacement. They'll have to postpone. Or cancel. No, maybe the tour can still be saved, maybe if they cut the number of shows in half, or maybe less but in smaller venues-

'Fuck,' he mutters under his breath. It won't work. The whole fucking concept was to have cross-continental tour grander than anyone else before. Without the financial support from Oceanborn, they are effectively lacking the money to pay for the extensive marketing campaign which, by the way, is already in progress; they can't afford accommodation for the crew or their salaries. Fan meetings. Signing sessions. They're wholly, deeply fucked.

He walks back to the office because he doesn't trust himself with a car right now. He's sure if he got behind the wheel, he would either drive the car into a wall or run over as many passers-by as possible. One would end with him dead and the other a murderer, and both options seem infinitely more attractive in comparison to the perspectives he has now. He'd never had to deal with such a crisis before. And he actually thought his life was fucked up before. His father's affair suddenly feels hilariously insignificant. Who cares if Aulë fucks his boss when the entire world is crumbling to pieces under Mairon's feet?...

His phone rings and Mairon automatically picks up.

'Oh, hi, you didn't actually ignore me this time!' Greets Melkor sarcastically. 'Listen, don't pick me up before the rehearsals, I'll take a taxi, 'kay? I'm not drunk, I'm not high, so don't worry. Just, uh, don't come over.'

'What did you do,' Mairon asks tiredly.

'I may have burned down half the kitchen? I tried to make muffins,' admits the older man sheepishly. 'It's your fault, really. You made those muffins and then you took them, and-'

'By the Void, shut the fuck up,' murmurs Mairon. 'Just fucking shut up. Are you hurt? Did you inhale any smoke?'

'No, I'm fine. Really,' Melkor replies. He sounds sincere.

Mairon doesn't believe him. 'I'll be there in half an hour. Wait for me,' he commands and hangs up.

He's not so sure he should see Melkor right now, not when he's this unhinged, but at least dealing with the small-scale disaster sounds real. He desperately needs one thing to be fixed today. Anything. Burned down kitchen sounds like something he can repair on his own. Something manageable.

He takes a taxi to Melkor's house. Once inside, he grimaces at the heavy smell of burnt plastic which scratches at his nose. He goes straight to the kitchen which, okay, it looks as bad as he thought it might: most of it is covered with soot, the oven clearly got torched. The wall directly behind it doesn't look too good either. The stench likely originates from the lumps of melted plastic on the oven which used to be bowls and mixing utensils. The frying pan is mostly fine, but its handle is seriously misshapen. The old fake flower on the window is mysteriously intact, but the nice curtains are gone.

'I didn't like them anyway,' says Melkor when he sees Mairon looking at the window.

'Be silent,' Mairon orders curtly and removes his suit jacket. 'Bring me the washing cloth. I'll try to salvage the wall-'

'Stop,' Melkor protests. 'Mairon, honestly. Leave it. The insurance claims agent needs to see it.'

'So, what, you want to leave it like this for however many days it takes,' mutters Mairon unhappily.

'Yes,' says the older man firmly. 'Don't worry, I don't even use the kitchen most of the time. Come on. Just, let's go? To the livehouse. I'll just start early. Or I'll laze about in there.'

Reluctantly, Mairon agrees. He calls for another taxi and doesn't reply when Melkor asks about his own car. He looks at the man, at his plain t-shirt and loose distressed jeans, at his dishevelled uneven hair and hopes the stylists will be able to make him look presentable. Honestly, Melkor's lack of fashion sense is peculiar for someone so famous. It's so irritating how careless the man is about his looks when appearance is one of his selling points... when it's clear how lethally attractive he could be if he only spent twenty minutes a day to pick clothes which actually fit.

Once in the livehouse, Mairon orders some pizza for Melkor and then assists him with the warm-ups because the rest of the band is yet to come. They start off with the higher notes and work their way down to the deep rumbling which tugs at something inside of Mairon's soul, then back up to the high notes again. Just for the fun of it, Melkor sings both parts of a love song duet after unsuccessfully attempting to coerce Mairon into singing along. Even the silly rendition of an old pop song sounds incredible when he is the one doing it. How can someone _not_ want to be a part of this man's success? How can anyone be so blind as to only look at meaningless numbers instead of the reality in which Melkor is the most talented musician in the entirety of Arda?...

_I need to fix this_ , he thinks insistently. _I won't let anyone ruin this tour for him. Even if I have to make a deal with the Lord of the Void himself, I fucking won't let this go._

'Any requests, my dear audience?' Asks Melkor, looking at him playfully.

' _The song of rebellion_ ,' Mairon says without thinking; only after the words leave his lips does he realize he named his favourite Utumno song. Melkor looks at him strangely, then nods. His smile then appears somewhat forced.

'I could use a guitar,' he mutters, but he shakes his head. When next he opens his mouth, it's to sing.

_Since the beginning of time before time_  
Eyes bright in the Void sought a flame  
In darkness impenetrable, soulless and ancient  
I know: there's nothing to be found  
For ages I sought, for ages I yearned  
For freedom, a promise made of lies  
Trust broken and heart broken, in the dark  
I called for the truth and I was betrayed  
Fallen from grace, lost and deceived  
I cry: listen and follow, I shall grant you release  
Open your minds to the ways that can be  
Open your hearts and break out of the mould  
Embrace the rebellion, stand up and conquer  
Scream until they also see what we've seen  
This world is ours, it's ours, it's mine!...

It's kind of funny how after all these years, Mairon still remembers the lyrics. He hasn't heard the song in so long! He used to listen to it on repeat for weeks, annoying his brothers when he tried to “convert them to the ways of Utumno”. But it never felt like this; in the empty concert hall, Melkor's voice, undisturbed by the instrumentals, fills the entire space. Resounding off of the walls, powerful and intense, it tears Mairon apart and builds him anew; he's quite sure there are tears in his eyes and he's helpless against the emotion which overrules his voice of reason for the duration of the song. Fuck this. Fuck the world. Melkor is _god-like_ when he sings like this!...

'Woah, that was fucking _good_ ,' announces Gothmog. Mairon hasn't even noticed him arrive. Judging from the look on Melkor's face, he wasn't the only one. 'It new?'

'No. Old as balls. Forget it,' says Melkor quickly. He clears his throat. 'I've got plenty of new stuff though, if you want to take a look. I could use some of your advice on the bridges,' he adds and grins at Gothmog, who rolls his eyes.

'You say that, but I'm quite sure you're just going to ignore all advice that goes against what you've already decided in that pretty head of yours,' the guitarist says. It earns him a laugh.

'Oh, you know me too well,' Melkor admits. 'It's not that I don't value your input-'

'No, it's okay, boss,' Gothmog interrupts. 'You do your thing, I do mine. I don't even like writing songs, so don't think I'd try to usurp you or anything.'

'You screech like a dying frog anyway,' Mairon mutters, 'so it's not like you could ever replace him.'

'Says the one who won't even go to karaoke with us. D'you reckon your singing would kill us?' Asks Gothmog sweetly.

Mairon rolls his eyes at him, but he's fighting the urge to smile. Gothmog is cool. For someone out of Angband, despite his scary looks and harsh accent, the man is more like a giant with a heart of gold. He's the one most likely to drive a wasted Melkor home if Mairon is unavailable, once or twice he helped looking for the fool when Melkor decided it would be fun to go sight-seeing in a foreign country, in the middle of the night, while high like a kite. He also reasonably tries, albeit fruitlessly, to direct the band's outings towards non-alcoholic venues, but he's always overridden by the others who seem not to grasp that their boss – their vocalist – has a problem.

'I'll go with you next time, if it's enough to get you off my case,' Mairon promises. 'Now, I'll just sit in the back. I've got a ton of stuff to do. Get the technicians to start plugging things in. The others will arrive soon,' he adds, smiles and goes to the back room.

He's already got seven emails regarding the sponsorship withdrawal. One is the official information from Oceanborn; it was sent not five minutes after Mairon left the guy's office, which means the bastard must have had it planned for a long time. The others are reaction emails. It's chaos; Finances are in disarray because the news means certain doom, Accounting and Law are blaming everyone they can think of, Eönwë tries to be the voice of reason where there's none and Manwë remains conspicuously silent through it all. There's also a message from Varda from PR department – Manwë's wife – urging everyone to remain calm and not mention a single word about this to the press. _Proceed as normal_ , she instructs. _The situation is being dealt with_.

Suspiciously, Mairon's phone is silent. Nobody tried to call him. Nobody mentions him in the emails. It's like he's being left out, even if they CC him in the correspondence; do they mean to put the blame on him? Will they fire him? Fuck. It's probably that. He won't claim he doesn't deserve it. He could have done more, he could have tried to convince- no. Ulmo Oceanborn is a stubborn son of a fish and everyone knows that. No, not even Mairon's manipulation techniques would work against that guy. There's nothing he could have done.

'I won't let them fire me,' he says softly. 'I won't... I won't abandon him.'

He sifts through his contacts to look for candidates for sponsor replacement. The list he comes up with is miserably short, but it's a start. He starts with the most promising: Ocean Music's biggest competitor, Wild Hunt Inc. The CEO, Oromë Aldaron, is one of Manwë's closer friends, so there's hope; the secretary promises to call Mairon back as soon as she reaches the boss with a meeting arrangement. Some smaller companies offer similarly optimistic answers, one even promises preferential conditions. Almaren Inc. is the biggest label after all, and even the less popular of its artists are still popular enough to generate considerable income; and Melkor is one of their best, capable of drawing in crowds of thousands despite the heavy type of music he plays. He's a fucking phenomenon. Oceanborn must've clearly lost his mind.

Once he's done with the arrangements, he sends a comprehensive email detailing everything he did directly to Manwë. He doesn't wait for a reply, because the stylist is here and he needs to usher Melkor into the back room so that he can get a much-needed make-over. Later, the media begin to arrive and he's required to confirm their permits, then the livehouse management want his help debriefing the in-house security team. He also debriefs the external security detail and instructs them what to do with confiscated items, talks to the people at the bar about the alcohol sales policy and double-checks that the technical staff provided all required equipment. The lighting staff mumble something about knowing how to do their jobs, but the withering glare from Mairon shuts them up quite effectively. At the last minute, taking the worsening weather outside into consideration, he makes the arrangements to have the catering provide free tea or coffee to everyone with a ticket. He gets approval from Eönwë within minutes.

The final hour before the show begins is a nervous affair. Everyone is jittery, all the more so as the hall fills with excited people. The back room is fairly isolated, but the chanting of the fans becomes audible approximately half an hour before the live. It starts off as a desynchronized cacophony of people calling Melkor’s name and the names of the band members, then it unifies and finally turns into a melodious rendition of _The Iron Prison_ , the first single Melkor released after Utumno. Grinning like a maniac, Melkor first hums, then starts to sing along with the audience. He’s got hundreds of tiny, sparkling beads in his hair, Mairon notices. They glimmer like jewels in the dark, like stars on the midnight sky. Along with the black and silver make-up, the fitted black clothes with silvery accents and the light in his eyes, the man looks like a dream. Mairon doesn’t look away even when their eyes meet. He can't.

The show begins right on time. The band members walk onto the stage one after another until finally, Melkor makes his great entrance. Usually, Mairon doesn’t watch. He’d sit at the back room with his laptop and wait for the intermission so that he’s there when Melkor needs food, drink or aspirin. Tonight, something makes him go to the VIP lodge instead. It’s full, save for the usual seats reserved for management. Mairon takes one of them and tries to pretend that he’s not one of those people, that he’s not about to sing along when the band plays _The High King’s Folly,_ then transitions smoothly into _Scars of Hatred_ and follows up with the new ballad, _Cursed by the Ancient Evil._ He’s not even supposed to remember the titles or recognize these songs. He certainly pretends he doesn't during rehearsals: an effect of very pointedly _not listening_. If Melkor knew how much Mairon couldn’t help but adore his music, he’d laugh so badly.

He laughs on stage too, just now, and the beads in his hair make him look ethereal. He holds up a stuffed dragon plush someone from the audience has thrown at him. ‘I had something else planned,’ he says, amused, to the audience’s applause, ‘but this changes things.’ He looks to the others, who nod at him with grins similar to his own. ‘ _Sudden Flame_!’ He announces and the fans start screaming. Mairon rolls his eyes at the change in setlist; it’s one of the things Melkor does when he pleases, but at least he makes sure to choose from the pool of songs they do at rehearsals.

They do twenty-three songs, including five during the planned two encores and the additional two when they come out for a third encore Mairon is going to hit them upside the heads for. One of the songs is a cover of _Nightingale_ by Melian. It’s a pop ballad Mairon remembers his mother liking. She wouldn’t like Melkor’s rendition of it, he’s sure; not with the amount of guitars, bass and haunted screaming it got upgraded with. Taking into account the reactions of the audience as well as his own judgement, Mairon decides he must look into getting the copyright to put it on record.

‘You’re all fired, you bastards,’ he tells the band once he meets them in the back room afterwards. ‘How many times do I have to tell you about encores?’

‘Well, you weren’t here to stop us,’ Glaurung says reasonably.

‘Yeah, where were you?’ Gothmog asks. ‘Poor Melkor had to find his own water bottle. All by himself! It traumatized him for life!’

‘Fuck off,’ Melkor exclaims and punches him playfully on the shoulder, laughing. Then, calmer, he adds, ‘I think they liked us tonight.’

‘Liked us? Man, you crazy? They loved us!’ Gothmog corrects him firmly.

‘You were passable,’ Mairon admits in a mock-serious tone. ‘Maybe I won’t fire you yet. There might still be some money to be made off you old people.’

They burst into laughter at the familiar joke. Ancalagon throws a water bottle at him and Mairon catches it with his reflexes, then throws it back. In turn, he gets hit with the sweaty wristband Gothmog chucks at him.

‘Oh, stop it, what are you, little kids?’ He asks in exasperation.

‘It’s little kids now? A minute ago we were old people. Make up your mind, Mr. Manager!’ Glaurung teases.

Melkor sings to the tune of a nursery rhyme, ‘ _Mister Manager, make up your mind, Mister Manager, what answer you’ll find, Mister Manager, share with the class, Mister Manager, you’ve got a nice-_ ‘

Mairon punches him on the arm, lightly enough not to seriously hurt but hard enough to prevent him from finishing the silly song. Melkor massages the sore spot with an exaggerated grimace of pain, smearing the black glitter from his hands all over the pale skin of his arm. He squeals in an undignified surprise when Ancalagon all of a sudden smacks him on the behind.

‘Yeah, yours is nice too,’ says Ancalagon appreciatively. Gothmog and Glaurung ineffectually try to suppress their snickering, Melkor glares at all three of them, grumbling that he meant “sass” and not anything perverted, thank you very much - and Mairon shakes his head in resignation. These are the fools he has to work with. And he will make sure these fools tour the fucking continent if it’s the last thing he does in his life.

It’s getting late, though. ‘Okay, guys, hit the showers. I may be persuaded to drop you all off if you’re ready to go within the hour. I won’t wait any longer,’ Mairon says firmly.

‘Actually, we were thinking of hitting the clubs. I feel quite good about my luck with the ladies tonight,’ Glaurung replies, grinning. ‘Wanna go too?’

‘No,’ Mairon huffs indignantly. He sneaks a quick glance at Melkor, who doesn’t appear interested in the subject. He’s currently using his glitter-covered finger to draw a mean-looking skull on his forearm.

‘I should get a tattoo,’ he announces.

Mairon groans. ‘No tattoos,’ he snaps. ‘No clubs, either. Showers. Now.’

‘That an offer?’ Melkor asks, lifting an eyebrow inquisitively. He laughs and flees when Mairon throws a water bottle after him.

The good thing is, Melkor is actually too exhausted to be persuaded to go clubbing with Glaurung and Ancalagon. Gothmog also drops out, but he takes his motorbike so he doesn’t require a lift. Which leaves Mairon alone with Melkor again. The rented car waits at the parking lot just like he arranged; he has to show it to Melkor who clearly expected Mairon’s own here despite not having arrived in it.

‘You know, this one isn’t so secure. I may yet steal it,’ the older man threatens in jest.

Mairon rolls his eyes. ‘If you do, feel free to pay for it from your own paycheck. And don’t expect me to bail you out for driving without a license. I won’t need you before the photo session for the EP release and that’s not for another two months.’

‘You’d leave me to my own devices for two months?’ Asks Melkor dubiously.

Mairon considers it for a moment. ‘Probably not,’ he admits. ‘You’d be dead if I tried.’

‘Gee, thanks for the amount of trust you have in my ability to get by,’ mutters the older man. Mairon pokes his arm. ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ he says with a small smile. He pokes Melkor again, this time in the ribs. The man squirms. He’s ticklish.

‘Stop it! I’ll poke you back,’ he warns.

‘No, you won’t. I’m driving,’ Mairon replies confidently. ‘Also, you deserve it for that terrible song about me.’

‘Was it so terrible? I actually thought we could release it as a single. Name it _Pain in the Butt_ or _Mr. No Fun_ , or something like that,’ Melkor jokes. At least Mairon hopes it’s a joke. It’s difficult to tell if the man is serious when he’s so cheerful. He’s usually this alive after performances, although before now, he always used to go drinking afterwards and his good mood quickly disappeared. Something is different about tonight. For both of them. Mairon feels it, the unfamiliar atmosphere surrounding them. Like he’s standing on a precipice waiting for a final push before he jumps – or falls. So much has happened today. So many things crumbled and collapsed. What else is it that is waiting to happen?...

‘I’m thinking of leaving Almaren,’ Melkor says when they are parked in front of his house.

Bewildered, Mairon stares at him wordlessly.

‘I’m sick and tired of my brother being there wherever I turn. I’m sick and tired of his control, you know? No matter what I do, his influence is always there. I can’t plan. I can’t do anything without his approval,’ the older man continues, not looking at him.

‘Your brother wants to protect you,’ Mairon says. It comes out hoarse. He clears his throat.

Melkor chuckles bitterly. ‘Oh, believe me, all he wants is to protect _himself_ ,’ he says firmly. ‘He knows if I don’t get everything I could ask for, I’ll start talking. He doesn’t want me to talk.’

‘Talk about what,’ Mairon asks. Thoughts whirl around in his head like smoke. He’s falling, and there is no ground anywhere in sight. He’s falling.

Melkor finally looks at him. There’s a scary intensity in his bright blue eyes. ‘I wasn’t the one driving that car,’ he says. ‘I wasn’t even drunk that night. He was. He was the one who killed those people and I took the blame for him. With enough money, he made it seem like he was not even there. I corroborated his story. He promised he’d get me out of it quickly, he promised I wouldn’t even see the inside of a cell. He lied,’ he finished, mouth tightening in a frown. ‘He’s been making it up to me ever since. But he’s always so overbearing. He won’t ever let me be free, Mairon. He won’t, and I feel like I'm still in jail every fucking day.’

‘You can’t be serious,’ Mairon says darkly. ‘Is this some joke? I’m fucking sick of your jokes.’

The older man gives him a hurt look. There still are some beads in his hair and specks of glitter under his eyes, like starlit freckles. He looks away, sighs and moves to get out of the car. Mairon pulls him back by the arm.

‘What?’ Melkor asks defensively.

Mairon kisses him. He’s got nothing to lose, his life already sucks, there’s literally nothing worse that can happen now; and Melkor’s lips against his feel like salvation. The older man doesn’t fight him but doesn’t respond either, and Mairon doesn’t back off. Not yet. He needs this, for fuck’s sake, he needs-

He pulls away quickly. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ he says earnestly, unable to look at Melkor, terrified of both what he wants, of what he _did_ and what he _yearns to do_ , and of the man’s reaction. He’s deplorable; not once, but twice he took advantage of Melkor now, and even though the man cannot possibly remember the first time, Mairon is still sure Melkor hates him.

‘… I don’t, uh,’ the older man mutters. ‘I mean. Fuck,’ he takes a deep breath. ‘It’s not that I don’t think you’re a great guy, I mean, you’re pretty great, you're great and you're gorgeous. Yeah, but uh. I’m not, I don’t… I don’t swing that way.’

Mairon looks at him, sees the sincerity in his face. Shaken, he laughs. ‘Fuck,’ he says, ‘just. I’m so fucked up. I'm so sorry. You’d better go. Have some rest. I’ll. Talk to you. You know, in a few days. Yeah.’

_He’s not gay_ , his mind screams at him when Melkor leaves the car and he pulls out of the parking spot. He steps heavy on the acceleration. _He’s not into guys_ . _He never was. He wouldn’t do it with me, he wouldn’t want it with me if he was sober. What I did to him, what I… what I forced him to do!..._

It’s a miracle he doesn’t cause an accident. He drives, undisturbed, with an unholy speed until the car runs out of gas; and when it comes to a slow stop in the middle of nowhere, Mairon screams and hits the wheel once, twice. It doesn’t help. Everything is fucked, everything is lost, Melkor will sure as fuck leave Almaren now, the tour will fall through, Mairon’s fucking parents will get a divorce and he, he’s as good as a rapist, he- he is a fucking sick bastard.

It’s a bit past three in the morning and he’s fuck knows how far from home, the ugly rental car is dead and he has no idea how to fix his life. Melkor most likely hates him now, his career is over or will be as soon as Melkor leaves Almaren, and to add insult to injury, it’s starting to rain. The phone vibrates. It’s a message from Eönwë of all people – _where r u?_ \- and Mairon doesn't know why, but he calls back.

'I don't know where I am but it's dark and deserted and fuck, I'm lost,' he says when Eönwë picks up.

'GPS in your phone?' Asks Eönwë softly. Mairon blinks – the world is less blurry when he does – is he crying? Fuck – and checks the EyePhone. He finds the location and sends it to Eönwë.

'I'll pick you up,' the younger man promises. 'Don't go anywhere. Wait in the car, okay? I'll be there as soon as I can.'

'H-how did you know?' Mairon asks unhappily. 'That I was-'

'Melkor called me,' Eönwë replies quickly. 'He was worried.'

There's warmth in Mairon's heart in reaction to hearing this, but he tries to suppress it; _Melkor is not gay_. He sits back against the car seat and says, 'I'll wait here. I'm... out of gas, so. I'll need to push the car off the road. Just so you know.'

'You have the emergency kit, don't you? Just mark your location and don't try anything stupid,' Eönwë tells him. 'I'll be there in an hour. You're not that far, you must have taken a weird road. Wait for me.'

After Eönwë hangs up, Mairon finds the emergency kit and gets out of the car to place the bollard behind the car for visibility. Then he returns inside, shivering. It's cold, probably the coldest night yet this year. He's dressed lightly because normally at this time, he'd have been at home asleep in his own bed if he wasn't such a fool. Work is going to be a nightmare tomorrow, no – today. Maybe he'll take a day off on demand. Or an entire week. Or a lifetime, more like. He doesn't think he can handle being near Melkor again any time soon.

_Then again, he wants to leave,_ the helpful voice in his head reminds him. Mairon sighs and closes his eyes. He needs to think, he needs to focus. He's tired as fuck, that's why he's taking it all so badly; but if he only concentrates, everything can be resolved to everyone's satisfaction. For certain. Melkor doesn't remember what happened that night, after all; if Mairon never brings it up, it won't become an issue. That's one positive thing about it all. Then, the tour. Melkor's contract for the tour is already signed and sealed, so he can't leave Almaren at least until the end of it. That gives Mairon a little less than a year to make other arrangements. That's better than if Melkor could just walk out on them tomorrow or something. He can't do that. Manwë won't let him go and abandon his responsibilities that easily.

_Manwë was driving that night_ , Mairon thinks and shudders. _By the Void, I wish I didn't know._

His phone chimes and Mairon quickly reads the message from Eönwë that he'll be there soon. He reclines in the seat and wraps his arms around himself. What's going to happen to him once Melkor leaves the label behind? Manwë is going to blame him for sure. If he's not fired, he'll likely end up demoted and moved to Technical where he won't be able to screw up because the department is that unimportant. Maybe he should really leave Almaren altogether. He's not sure he can work under someone who threw his own brother under the bus like that; especially when that someone is also involved in a torrid affair with his father.

Life feels incredibly fucked up right now. Good thing it literally cannot get any worse. Getting mugged and accidentally gutted, if he thinks about it long enough, could be considered an improvement. He wouldn't have to face the consequences of _kissing Melkor like a fool_.

There's a knock on the window and Mairon looks out to see Eönwë. He unlocks the door and sighs when Eönwë lets himself in to take the passenger seat. It's even colder now. At least he's not alone.

'So, how do we do this?' Asks Eönwë and sneezes. 'Geez. You're lucky you're so pretty, otherwise I'd be very cross with you for dragging me outside in such weather.'

'You call me pretty one more time, I'll steal your car and run you over with it,' Mairon threatens mildly. He's not entirely sure he means it as a joke, but Eönwë laughs anyway. Good thing one of them isn't in a mood to kill people.

'You wouldn't do that. You know I'm too beautiful to die in such a gruesome way,' Eönwë tells him cheerfully. 'Now, I brought you a jacket because I'm too good at predicting what you may need,' he hands it to Mairon. It's black and the sleeves are too long. It's also too small: he can't zip it up. He's grateful anyway.

'Yeah, sorry, it's mine from before I buffed up a bit. I was in a hurry,' Eönwë explains sheepishly. 'Uh. Let's see. I'll drive you home in my car and I'll have a pick up for yours arranged. Seems legit?'

'Whatever. It's rental anyway. It can rot,' Mairon mutters, then grabs his dying phone and follows Eönwë to his car. In the dark, he can only tell it's a sports type. He doesn't even care what it is. Probably a hybrid or full electric, he decides when Eönwë starts the engine. It doesn't matter. It just gives him something to think about that is not Melkor and the disaster of this night.

Eönwë doesn't insist on small talk. He accepts that Mairon's in no mood to chat. The silence is not all that comfortable either, but it's better than forced blabber. The ride is not long anyway; half an hour later, Eönwë drops Mairon off in front of his apartment block.

'You sure I can leave you alone?' He asks seriously.

Mairon nods. 'Yeah. I promise I won't drown myself in the bath or smother myself with the pillows. It's just a rejection, no big deal. I've been gay my whole life, I'm used to being disappointed.'

It's a lie. Eönwë can likely tell it's a lie. He doesn't press the matter, though. He just sighs and pulls Mairon into a brief hug. 'Call me in the morning,' he insists.

'As soon as I wake up,' Mairon promises. 'It may not be morning,' he adds, because right now he feels like sleeping for a week.

He goes straight to bed, shoes, clothes and all. Fuck everything. He's too tired to care. He doesn't dream of Melkor. He doesn't dream at all. At least whatever deity sends sleep to poor bastards like himself is merciful to him tonight.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Since I'm basically writing stuff for my own entertainment nowadays, I can't say for sure when the story will be updated. It's difficult to be motivated when I get one kudo every ten hits and one comment every one hundred *sigh* I guess I'm just not a very good writer.
> 
> Coming next:  
> accidental exhibitionism, Feanor being a dick, Melkor deciding he likes dicks apparently, angst, drama and good music.  
> Mairon's life isn't getting any easier.


End file.
